


In Love with the Madness

by Pixeled



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Cigarettes, F/M, Femme Fatale, Gun Kink, Lust, Manipulative Relationship, Passion, Red Dress, Sexual Metaphors, Violent Sex, Visceral, red flags, toxic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28237881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixeled/pseuds/Pixeled
Summary: He shouldn’t call her Lu.He shouldn’t do lots of things.
Relationships: Lucrecia Crescent/Vincent Valentine
Kudos: 10





	In Love with the Madness

**Author's Note:**

> To “I’m A Sucker for a Liar in a Red Dress” by Adam Jensen

“What….you smoke, Lu?”

Vincent had just left the manor, _feeling_ her absence in his very bones more than observing that she wasn’t there, like a phone cord that had come undone from the wall after the endless fidgeting of restless fingers during a conversation with someone you _liked_ and you only discovered it when it was too late, when you’re forced to realize you’d been rambling to yourself for who knows how long. With her, he allowed himself to speak, perhaps more than he ever should, given he is shy and dumb and the only thing he had ever been good at is pulling a trigger and not thinking about the inevitability of death. It came, no matter what you did while you spent your years forgetting. Turks never forgot. Death sat on their shoulders with a firm oppressive weight like a hungry demon they’d grown accustomed to, but none of them spoke about it, each dealing with it in their own way.

He shouldn’t call her Lu.

He shouldn’t do lots of things.

Her lips, stained the red of that day’s lipstick, reapplied after it all came off on his cock in the closet earlier, wrapped tantalizingly around the cigarette. The association made him throb. Her lips had sex with that cigarette, and he was definitely watching.

She turned slowly, the late summer air catching her honey brown hair and letting it play about her, the colors and richness of it entrancing him, her eyes coming alive in the sunset, at once that same beautiful brown but enhanced by the orangey pinks of the sky reflecting in them. She smiled slow—very slow—and calculating, sly like a fox.

“Sometimes,” she says, shrugging, enigmatic. He can never tell what she’s thinking. Everything she says could mean everything and nothing.

They’re not menthols like the type Veld smoked, and she drinks Jasmine tea so the taste of stale black coffee and menthols can’t chase him here, but he wonders if she’s worse for him than Veld ever was.

Today she’s wearing a red dress and it’s not very modest because it shows her entire neck, exposes her shoulders, and there is a little dip in the shape of a “V” that exposes her cleavage which press against the fabric with each drag of the cigarette. If he could own her breasts, trace his name along them with his tongue and mark them forever with the savagery of his teeth, he would. He really would.

But perhaps the little “V” that gives him a glimpse is enough for now, even though he knows you can’t own what you never had in the first place.

Her lab coat is nowhere to be seen and this dress is not the kind of dress a scientific woman working in the room they’re using as their lab would wear.

It’s the dress of a woman who can bring a man to ruin. And now he knows he’s a sucker for a liar in a red dress.

Without her, the Manor was just an old house that he crept around like a ghost. He ate with them, he knew their every preference: how they took their coffee, their tea, other things he couldn’t care less about but was forced to endure on loop, every day the same, his mind numb with the monotony of it. He’d put down two Nibel wolves that had come too close to the Manor so far, and he had to admit, the hand that fell hard and fast with ease around his weapon in all the right ways and places with too-easy familiarity itched for a good kill, and that made his lust fast and hard too, as if replacing killing with fucking was as natural as breathing, his calloused hands tracing Lu’s body slowly, slowly, killing him slow.

He teased her apart only to pull her back together like the practiced action of cleaning and snapping his gun together to keep his anxious hands busy. But this was aggressive and needy and not at all about the routine. Still, there was no reverence in it, because he could see something living in her eyes that could overtake the caged beast inside him. And maybe she put him there, locked the cage, and threw away the key. Maybe he wanted to be there, her plaything, in love with the madness of it, the passion in her brown eyes, made dark with desire. It made him think she wanted him like he wanted her.

Was he just wasting time with a beautiful woman who should have meant nothing?

She had plenty to do, so these occasions were quick and rough, their kisses messy and desperate.

The first time he’s so desperate for it he doesn’t use a condom and doesn’t even realize it until he’s spilling hot and hard inside her, shuddering like he’s been bewitched.

Perhaps he has been.

Every time after they don’t even bother correcting the first mistake.

It’s a fucking mistake and he doesn’t fucking care.

They don’t even talk anymore.

They fuck like animals.

Her laugh fills his head like bells and it makes him so fucking hard he’s cut down to size.

But he likes the hurt.

Her breasts, the dip of her stomach just past her ribs, and the smell of her arousal between her thighs makes him so dizzy with need he could tear her apart, but he makes love to her instead, and that’s the biggest mistake of all, because it’s _her_ tearing _him_ apart.

He thought she was good for him, maybe.

At first.

But a bad man is a bad man, and a bad man only deserves bad things.

He acknowledges the slow carefully constructed destruction that’s set in motion and maybe he’s playing with death because death has always played with him.

He tried to be vacant, like an echo of a man caught up in the shadows, until she passed by, giving him that little smile of hers that stole the breath from his lungs for just long enough that his heart thundered and raged against his rib cage like a knife searing into him and the pain made him exhale again, alive, seen.

Too bad she’s a fucking nightmare and she’s made him what he is.


End file.
